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Notes01/22/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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49
East India 1749
The old brig seems to lie ghostly cumbersome in the sea, the intervals are unusually long, in which the hypnotic groaning and creaking of the keel works its way into the two-master's beams, as if someone were very slowly pulling a piece of wood over a washboard. Then there is the rolling of a bottle over the planks, with each interval once from one side to the other, before it encounters resistance with a light blow. Hardly any wind. Weakly a few waves slosh around the bow, muffled gurgling, otherwise everything is dead quiet. What about the crew? There were these radio messages last night, from Pembroke and Namur, the cyclone I can't open my eyes. It smells burnt. Did we have fire on board? Then there is an almost pungent ethereal smell, like camphor, that must be the pepper that was stowed next to the smoked tea, probably the cargo got into each other in the storm.
The Chinese Lapsang Souchong, which they smoke over pine roots, it is possible that it smells like this. I perceive him more and more. It seems to interweave with brighter, freshly citric smoke. Did we have Indian incense? Did he catch fire, too? Was there a fire? The opium. Where the hell were we? I can't make it out. Is it burned, lost? Will we sink?
What was that? The bottle. She must have cracked. I must have fainted again. How much time may have passed? An hour? I still can't open my eyes. That silence. What about the others? Scottish single malt, it smells smoky by itself, damn, it was my last bottle of whisky. The black Zware tobacco, it must be here in my cabin, probably even here in the bunk, among all the old burnt wood. If the company knew that I prefer to smoke Dutch tobacco. Whether it even matters anymore?
I think it's getting dark. The sea is very still now. I lie here in uncertainty for half an eternity. It smells of burnt wood, the smoky note in my whisky, which has smeared over the remains of the earth and ashes on the cabin planks. I don't think I'll be unloading my cargo at any port. Sorry, George. Rule Britannia...
The Chinese Lapsang Souchong, which they smoke over pine roots, it is possible that it smells like this. I perceive him more and more. It seems to interweave with brighter, freshly citric smoke. Did we have Indian incense? Did he catch fire, too? Was there a fire? The opium. Where the hell were we? I can't make it out. Is it burned, lost? Will we sink?
What was that? The bottle. She must have cracked. I must have fainted again. How much time may have passed? An hour? I still can't open my eyes. That silence. What about the others? Scottish single malt, it smells smoky by itself, damn, it was my last bottle of whisky. The black Zware tobacco, it must be here in my cabin, probably even here in the bunk, among all the old burnt wood. If the company knew that I prefer to smoke Dutch tobacco. Whether it even matters anymore?
I think it's getting dark. The sea is very still now. I lie here in uncertainty for half an eternity. It smells of burnt wood, the smoky note in my whisky, which has smeared over the remains of the earth and ashes on the cabin planks. I don't think I'll be unloading my cargo at any port. Sorry, George. Rule Britannia...
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